


Safe With Me

by nurfherder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M, Possession, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:05:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nurfherder/pseuds/nurfherder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The secret of Sam's possession has begun to shred every single aspect of Dean's life. After kicking Castiel out of the bunker, Dean must try to set his wrongs to right, healing the bonds of friendship and love torn asunder. (Season 9 divergent.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Come Home

The engine of the Impala idles, a low rumble echoing off the lovely, immaculate homes surrounding it. Dean stares about him, taking in each craftsman-style house, each front porch and lawn; he is out of place here. He glances down at his phone, resting on his bouncing knee; Castiel should have been here at eight. It is now five minutes past. Dean knows, if he never gets to see Castiel again, it will be his just desserts.

It’s growing cold. Dean tugs his jacket tighter around his shoulders. Fall is taking hold of the nights, stealing them back from the warmth of summer. It had been warm the night Dean sent Castiel away. The weather was the only good thing about that night, the only thing he does not look back on with repulsion and regret. The next morning, Dean had shivered in the bunker, wondering how he had ever found it a warm and welcoming place.

Two halves of a whole were severed; Dean looked at Sam that day, and he could clearly see Ezekiel’s approval hiding behind his brother’s sad eyes, behind Sam’s confusion. Sam asked where Castiel had gone, as he looked over to the noticeably empty space at the breakfast table. He had only been a resident there for two weeks, but Castiel had already established which was “his” seat. He had even added a few personal trinkets to his room.

Ezekiel had been right—he had to have been—Dean could not fathom his deed with any question or doubt in his mind. He could not sit well with himself, stomach food or taste any morsel, thinking that what he did was wrong. Castiel was a risk, Castiel was a danger, and Castiel was going to find out.

The secret ate away at everything, gorging itself on Dean’s flesh until he could no longer stand under its weight. It was almost easy to kick Castiel out, to let all of Dean’s anger and frustration and fear target itself onto one person. The best person. The person who would take the heat because he always felt he deserved it—God, Castiel thought he deserved it—and so Castiel had left.

“It will be better now,” Ezekiel had said. “Sam is safe, and Castiel will be fine. He knows how to be human better than any of our brothers. You did the right thing.”

But Dean no longer believes that.

Days after, weeks after, and suddenly a month has gone by since he has seen Castiel. One month since he betrayed his friend and threw him to the wolves. Castiel had not called or texted, and Dean is not surprised. He cannot be surprised; he knows what he said that night.  _You’re useless to us…, you need to get a life, Cas…, it’s time for you to move on_ … Move on. Like Dean cannot.

He would open his phone over and over, scan through the screens; his eyes would hover over Castiel’s number. Dean types out texts but he does not send them. Even when Sam asks casually over dinner, or over research, or on a hunt, if Dean has heard anything from Cas. Even when Dean shrugs that he doesn’t care, or when he bites back an angry retort.

But he does care. He does want to know where Castiel is. He does want to apologize. His stomach is almost constantly aching, and Dean’s trust in Ezekiel is wavering. He wants to talk to someone. He wants to be yelled at. He wants to be hit, like he should be. He wants to have his best friend back.

One month and three days after he kicked him out, Dean opens his phone and texts Castiel.

_—I need to see you._

Send.

He hesitates.

_—If that’s ok._

Send again.

Wait.

Three hours later, after Dean has gnawed his thumbnails into nonexistence, cursed Castiel’s name and convinced himself that Castiel is dead and it’s all his fault, Dean’s phone beeps at him. Its message: an address, and a time.

It is alien, and it is cold, but it’s as good as a  _yes_  to Dean. So when the time comes, he sits outside in his car, in this perfect little neighborhood, and he waits. He texts Castiel to alert him to his presence; he cannot bring himself to walk up and ring the doorbell, to intrude his person on whatever life Castiel may have built. In this very nice house. Under these very lovely trees. And maybe he doesn’t answer to the name “Castiel” here. Maybe he took his former Vessel’s name. Maybe the house belongs to Cas’s brothers and sisters, maybe Cas has found members of his family who side with him. There are too many maybes, and it kills Dean that he doesn’t know.

The minutes continue to pass. It’s now 8:10. Dean’s palms are sweating. He wonders if this is a trap. He can hear his heart in his ears, and at 8:15 he wraps his fingers around the steering wheel, about to put the car into drive and move on—but he can’t. He can’t not try to see Cas, he can’t not try to fix everything—and then suddenly, there’s a knock on the passenger side window.

Dean starts and looks up; it’s Cas.

He leans over to lift the door-lock, moving so quickly he pulls a crick in his neck. Castiel hesitates, opens the door, then slides in. He closes the door behind him; he sits quietly with his hands folded on his knees.

They don’t speak.

The logical part of Dean’s brain knows they should check each other’s identities. He knows they should prove they’re not possessed, that they are not shapeshifters, but instinct keeps him still; he knows this is Cas. The real, living and breathing Cas. Dean knows it from the tension in the air between them, from the too familiar smell of Castiel filling the cab. This is the man Dean threw out; and this is the angel that pulled him from hell.

Dean is finally stirred to speak. He opens his mouth, and the air escapes his throat with a vague “I—” before Castiel interrupts him.

“Is Sam alright?”

Dean swallows. Castiel is not sarcastic. He is genuine—and he is hurt. His voice is quiet and soft, and Dean had had no idea it was possible for such a simple question to make him feel so much worse. But he cannot answer it—not yet, anyway. Though he wants to. He wants the secret to fly out, burst from his lips without any control, because it would and could explain so much. But one thing at a time. “It’s good to see you, Cas.”

Castiel blinks. He turns and finally meets Dean’s gaze. Dean speaks again, a small confidence growing within him, spurred by the connection of Castiel’s eyes.

“This is a nice place.”

Castiel nods carefully. “It is.”

“You live here, or..?”

“April…” Castiel clears his throat and hesitates. “My friend lives here. She’s letting me stay with her.”

“April, huh?” Dean grins, and it feels forced and wrong on his face. “You got a girlfriend already?”

Castiel doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even smile. In fact, he frowns deeper. His eyebrows furrow and he looks away, staring at the glove compartment. “What do you want, Dean?”

“I—” Dean stops. He shifts in his seat, then he turns the car off, feeling the silence shutter through his bones and settle in the space between them. “I wanted to apologize.”

Castiel blinks slowly, raising an eyebrow. He glances over, his eyes settling on Dean’s knee; Dean realizes he is bouncing his leg and he stops. “Cas, I never should have—I never should have done what I did or said what I said—I’m so sorry.”

“Did Sam put you up to this?”

“What?” Dean shakes his head ardently. “No. He doesn’t even know I’m here.”

Castiel doesn’t say anything; Dean is toying with words, words he’d been practicing for weeks but picturing with a much more positive response. He’s not sure where he’s going wrong; Castiel’s demeanor has not softened since he entered the car. Dean takes a breath, attempting to plunge ahead with his apology, but Castiel stops him.

“Dean: what do you  _want_.” He says it again, and he is staring directly at Dean. He looks exhausted, in every sense of the word.

Dean is slack-jawed, waiting for his mind to work. His tongue plays with responses. It plays with  _I told you already_ , plays with  _I’m sorry_  again, and then it finally plays with the truth. “I want you to come back,” it says.

Castiel huffs out a breath and smiles shakily. “No, Dean.”

“Cas, please.” And Dean burns because he’s begging, but goddamn it, he’s come this far. He will not leave until Castiel understands.

“Dean, I can’t. I have a life here now. I’m building something here with April—”

“What, the girl you’ve known for a month?”

Castiel’s eyes snap at him. “What does it matter how long I’ve known her? She has accepted me, and I like her. Besides,” he shakes his head. “Don’t you see? You have nothing to apologize for, Dean. You were right.”

“No Cas, that is not true.”

“Yes it is. I am useless to you. And I am a risk to you.”

“And you’re not a risk to  _her_?” Dean points back at the house, where the front porch light has been left on in anticipation of Castiel’s return.

“‘John Smith’ is not a risk to her, no.”

Dean sighs angrily, wrapping his hands around the steering wheel and staring ahead. He can feel the minutes ticking by, and he can tell that Castiel is about to open the car door and slip away, slip out of his life forever. Castiel will go out and live and do things that Dean is not a part of anymore, and that simply cannot happen. “Cas: I need you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Will you shut up and stop telling me what I do and don’t need?” Dean glares at his friend. “I need you. I’m not shitting around when I say that.”

Castiel shakes his head. “You say it, but—”

“But what?”

“But everything that you needed from me I can no longer give, Dean! You have made that very clear.”

“Goddamn it, Cas!” Dean slams his fists against the wheel and turns in his seat, undoing his seatbelt to face Castiel squarely. “I need  _you_. You being the operative word here. Not your powers, not your angel-mojo—I need you, you idiot. You’re my best friend; I  _miss_  you!” Dean feels his face burning red, but he stands his ground, his jaw firm and his eyes wide with meaning, boring into Castiel’s to make him feel every word. “Cas, I was wrong. I made a mistake—I have made so many mistakes in the last month and I don’t want—” He hesitates. “You can’t be one of them.”

Castiel’s brow furrows, and after a long moment, he says quietly, “What mistakes?”

Dean hangs his head. Of course Castiel would catch onto that, would question it. Dean shakes his head; not yet. “Are you coming home or not?”

Castiel blinks several times. He opens his mouth and flubs for a moment. “Dean, I can’t just—I can’t just tell you to start the car and, and…” He gestures, his voice growing louder; Dean watches his mouth and feels something like hope grow inside of him. “I can’t run away with you just-like-that, Dean!”

Dean’s heart leaps. Fire is pouring through his veins. He throws an arm along the seat behind them and leans closer. “Yes you can.”

“What, and just leave without a goodbye? Without a ‘thank you’?”

“I would.”

“No, you wouldn’t!” Castiel stares at him darkly, but Dean can see something behind his eyes. It’s enough to make Dean smile, to lift the corners of his mouth and make him believe. He concentrates, as though he can will Castiel with thought alone: _stay_.

“Dean—” Cas hesitates. “I’m still a risk to you and Sam. I’m still a wanted man.”

“Welcome to the club. We’re all wanted men.”

“It’s not the same, Dean.”

“Screw it. It is the same. Because we’re family, goddamn it.”

Another silence between them, and then Dean is stunned when Castiel reaches to open the car door.

“But—” Dean says urgently, holding out a hand to stop him. “Where are you—?”

“Dean, I can’t leave. Not tonight anyway. April has a dinner planned for us—”

“Cas.” Dean looks at him hard. “Come home.” And when Castiel does not seem further convinced, Dean adds carefully, “I need you there—I  _want_  you there.

“Come home.”

And then Castiel opens the car door. “Give me…” He hesitates. “Give me a week, Dean.”

“Why a week? I’m here now.”

“Dean, you can’t just—you can’t just yell at me to go and get a life, and then yell at me to come back, just because it suits you!”

“I’m not yelling at you, Cas.”

“Dean Winchester—” Castiel stares at him, exasperated. “You are the most selfish man I have ever known.”

Dean starts, and very suddenly he starts laughing, somewhere between hysterical and broken. “Oh, you have no idea.”

Castiel watches him for a long moment, and as Dean begins to settle, Castiel steps out of the car. He ducks his head back in to say, “Do you want to come in for dinner?”

“What, and meet her? No thank you.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “She’s very nice, Dean.”

“I’m sure she is.”

Castiel hesitates, then says quietly, “You’re not selfish, Dean. I shouldn’t have said that.”

They look at each other, and Dean leans forward, his hand crawling across the empty, still warm passenger seat, as though it had a goal. As though it could keep Castiel just a little bit longer. “I’ll see you soon?”

Castiel frowns and takes a step back. “Goodbye, Dean.” He closes the car door, and Dean is left without the last word. He watches Castiel walk up the lawn and disappear into the house.

For two weeks, Dean doesn’t hear a word. And then, Thursday morning dawns with thunder and rain, and Dean is awakened by a knock on the bunker’s door. He skids to a halt in his house slippers, and he opens the door to discover a soggy, sopping Cas standing on his stoop.

“Hello, Dean.”

A smile blooms from Dean’s chest, and he opens his mouth to say hello, but the wind is knocked from him: Castiel threw his heavy, well-packed bag straight into Dean’s chest. He steps inside and shoulders past Dean, saying as he goes, “I’m still mad at you.”

But Dean doesn’t give a damn. He is grinning like an idiot, and he doesn’t care one bit.

Cas is home.


	2. The Secret

When Castiel returns, Sam is predictably overjoyed to see him. He claps him on the shoulder and accosts him with questions. “Where did you go? Why? You should have at least said goodbye, man!”

Castiel smiles softly, and Dean is very grateful that Castiel seems prepared for this sudden line of inquiry. “I had received word from a few of my brothers and sisters,” he says smoothly. “I had to investigate to see if they were alright, if perhaps they could be allies.”

“Were they?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

It is an artful lie, and thankfully Sam does not see through it. He willingly buys in, nodding and asking a few more questions about the who and the what, wondering why it took Castiel so long to come back. Castiel elaborates flawlessly. He doesn’t even bat an eyelash. When Sam seems satisfied and goes off to the library for more research, Castiel glances at Dean and nods; Castiel clearly thinks that the hardest part is over. But Dean knows it hasn’t yet begun.

Ezekiel has become noticeably absent from Sam’s eyes. Dean has been trying to see him since Castiel came back, to ascertain how Ezekiel feels about Castiel’s return. Is he angry with Dean for changing his mind? Or is Ezekiel perhaps hiding to avoid Castiel’s notice? Dean wouldn’t mind a chance to speak with him, to clear the air—but Ezekiel is not the one Dean truly needs to talk to.

Dean plans to tell Castiel the truth, to tell him everything. So that Dean could share his burden with someone. How he had ever thought it was a good idea to keep any of this from Castiel, he cannot understand. The fear of Castiel’s ire pales in comparison to Dean’s need for his words, for his knowledge, and for the comfort he can provide. Ezekiel may continue to insist that Dean did the right thing, but Castiel will be the one to truly know. Cas will be honest.

But Dean knowing he  _should_  tell Cas is easier than actually doing it. He’s gotten as far as, “Hey, Cas, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about…” But then he trails off, mumbling a, “Later, though.”

He finds himself paranoid, thinking that Ezekiel—that Sam—is right around the corner. Even if everyone has gone to bed, Dean still flicks his eyes around the halls and doesn’t trust the silence. He and Castiel stand in the doorways to their rooms, Castiel yawning and losing his patience as Dean tries to tell him. But he can’t finish the thought; he can’t even begin the thought.

Castiel does his best to listen to the words Dean isn’t saying; he occasionally prompts the discussion when they’re alone. He will ask them over books in the library, when Sam is out of sight, “Did you want to speak with me?”

Dean simply needs to do it. He simply needs to tell Castiel, and then that will be that. Whatever Castiel has to say, whatever judgment he has to pass on Dean, he will. Painful, but just: what Dean deserves. It will be a preview of Sam’s reaction. And then, they will be able to move on. They have to move on.

But Dean is unsure if they can. And that is the point of hesitation, to think that Castiel would never look at him the same again, would never trust him again. Dean values these moments in the bunker, this time as a family. Kevin had returned earlier in the week from a quick trip with Garth and, with the four of them all together, the bunker feels warmer than ever. They talk, they laugh—there is genuine laughter echoing through the halls and Dean cannot put a high enough value on it.

Sure, Cas had said he was still mad at Dean, and every now and then Dean gets a dirty look sent his way—or Castiel will brush off Dean’s jokes with an ironic holier-than-thou attitude—but it just doesn’t feel like Cas is mad at him. It feels like old times, like the best times. Being able to see him, talk with him, laugh with him. Cas is learning better how to laugh, and Dean attributes it to Castiel’s returned presence in the bunker, to Sam’s sly wit and Dean’s teasing. Dean attributes it to Castiel’s fondness for Kevin, and who couldn’t be fond of Kevin? Castiel is where he belongs, Dean thinks. How could he have ever thought they were better apart?

They’re a team, all of them. And at some point, that team will fracture apart because Sam is going to find out what Dean did. It will happen, Dean knows it. Whether it’s tomorrow, or the day that Ezekiel and Sam are finally strong enough that Ezekiel can leave Sam’s body; Sam will find out. And Dean will need Castiel there to stand by both of them

He needs to tell him.

Two weeks after Castiel’s return, the four of them seek refuge in the bunker on a dark fall night, glad to be out of the first snow-fall of the season. They are at a rare but welcome stopping point, having just finished two back-to-back hunts; there is a definite sense of peace in the air. Sam has taken himself off to bed, yawning as he goes, and Kevin is hunched over his laptop, earbuds shoved into his ears, fingers tapping madly. He is playing some kind of game, too involved in it to answer with more than a grunt when Dean inquires about it. Dean tries to get a better view: it looks like an amped-up version of Galaga. He makes a mental note to find the time to play it himself.

Castiel is reading across from him, and the room’s focused silence stirs something within Dean’s belly. This is the moment, he thinks. It’s now or never, and never is not an option. Slowly, carefully, he leans forward. He swallows the lump in his throat, and he very casually gets Castiel’s attention. He makes a gentle head-tilt to the right, and Castiel nods. They quietly get up and pad out of the room. Unseen by Kevin, they make their way down the long hallway to the kitchen.

The kitchen is industrial, not particularly homey in any real way except in its vintage charm. Long white countertops sit heavily over the green cabinetry, stretching down the length of the galley kitchen and its island. Recessed lights glow dimly from the ceiling, bouncing a soft yellow off the rows of pots and pans that hang above the island on their individual hooks. With two more flicks of the light switches, Dean knows he could have this place lit up like Christmas, fluorescent bulbs gleaming from every angle. But right now, he likes it like this. It’s quiet, and it’s soothing; they are far from the rest of the bunker, and Dean reminds himself that they are alone, that they have privacy here.

There’s no one to hear him but Cas.

The thought stops him in his tracks. He drops a palm against the island and drums his fingers there, nodding to the refrigerator that hums quietly in the corner. “You want somethin’ to drink?” His voice is hoarse, and he clears it.

“No, thank you.”

“You sure? Some coffee or something?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I intend to try and sleep soon; caffeine will not help me.”

“Ok.” Dean pauses, chewing on his lower lip. “There’s some bread over there, if you want toast…”

“I am fine, thank you.” Castiel leans across from Dean, his back resting against the countertop. He folds his arms across his chest and watches Dean carefully. He waits.

Dean swallows. He feels his nerves rising under Castiel’s steady eyes, and Dean braces himself. He opens his lips and hears the sound of his own tongue clicking against the roof of his dry mouth. He swallows; he rubs a hand across the back of his neck. And finally Castiel can’t take it anymore. He uncrosses his arms and plants his palms against the counter behind him. “Dean: what is it? What do you have to tell me?”

“Cas, it’s…” Dean hesitates. “It’s difficult.”

“I can see that.”

“I…” Dean shakes his head. “Cas, what I’m gonna tell you—it’s secret. Okay? You can’t—I shouldn’t even—it’s secret, Cas.”

Castiel straightens up and his brow furrows. He nods gravely, and Dean fixes him with a glare, saying, “I need your word on that, man.”

“Of course.”

“You can’t tell anyone.”

“I won’t.”

“Not even Sam.”

Castiel blinks in surprise. Dean continues under his breath, staring down at his feet, scuffing them against the black and white tile. “ _Especially_  not Sam.”

“Dean…” Castiel reaches out a hand as he closes the space between them. He catches at Dean’s shoulder, shaking it slightly. “What is it?”

When Dean looks back up, there are tears in his eyes. He shuts them away as best he can, fumbling to find his footing again, fumbling to find the strength to speak, to find just the right words… And he reminds himself that that’s Castiel’s hand pressed against his left shoulder. That’s Castiel’s warmth so very, very near. And Dean finds himself blindly, imperfectly, saying everything.

“Sam was dying, Cas. He was—he was about to die. And it was all my fault, because I let him do the trials. I let him—and I should have been protecting him—it should have been me. And I couldn’t lose him. And you weren’t there—and that’s not your fault, Cas. You couldn’t help it, so don’t start blaming yourself—But Zeke—Ezekiel—he was there. He showed up and he helped and…

“Cas: Sam was dying.”

Dean chances a glance up; Castiel’s eyes are dark and withdrawn, and he is listening intently. “Dean,” he says heavily into the silence, his voice dripping with fear, “What did you do?”

Suddenly, Dean finds himself laughing, wild and breathy; he feels faint, like all the blood has rushed away from his head. “It was really Zeke’s idea. I just had to give my approval, had to let him ask Sam—”

Very quickly, the understanding crosses Castiel’s face, and he recoils. He peels away, and he stares at Dean, agape and silent. Dean chases him with words, feeling dizzy. “You said awhile back that I was selfish, Cas. And you’re right. I am.”

“Dean…” Castiel is shaking his head. “What did you  _do_?” When Dean cannot speak, Castiel says carefully, his voice barely supported in his shock. “How did you get him to say yes?”

“Ezekiel. He talked as me. Said stuff—I dunno what he said—said true stuff, I guess. Anyway. He got Sam to say yes, so…”

Castiel is leaning weakly against the opposite counter. His jaw is hanging slack, and he fumbles a hand behind him for support. “So…” he says after a long moment. “So if Sam said yes, how can he… I don’t understand, Dean, Sam would never have…” Castiel suddenly fixes him with a glare. “He doesn’t know what he said yes to; you tricked him.”

Dean does not say anything; Castiel throws himself upright, stalking the kitchen, fingers covering his mouth. Dean shakes his head and stares at the ground. “He couldn’t know, Cas. He wouldn’t have said yes if he knew what we were gonna—”

Castiel whirls around. “You’re damn right he wouldn’t have said yes!” He swallows hard, and his eyes are like ice. “After everything we’ve fought for—”

“Cas—”

“—After everything—we—have—fought for!” He slams his palm against the island at his side, emphasizing each word. “And Sam’s  _possessed_? Sam’s possessed!”

“Keep your voice down, goddamnit! This thing ain’t sound proof!”

Castiel begins to pace as he pieces things together, his fingers tapping wildly against his chin. “So, what then—Sam cannot know, because if he does, he could eject Ezekiel, and he could die, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“This works two ways, of course. Can’t imagine what a fantastic fate for an angel—to be willingly hosted inside a Winchester!”

“Cas…”

“Dean, do you have any idea how valuable you and Sam are? Have you forgotten that? A host of angels are screaming for vital Vessels, not to mention demons, and you just hand your brother over to one of them?”

“You said we could trust Ezekiel!”

“I had no idea you’d do what you did!”

“What was I supposed to do?” In spite of the desire to keep their voices down, Dean cannot stop himself from shouting back. “Goddamnit, Cas, tell me, tell me—if you had been there, if you had seen him talking with Death, about to walk away with him—”

Castiel stops suddenly and stares at him. “ _What_?”

“—What would you have done? What would have you done differently?”

“He was going to choose Death?”

“Yes, Cas! He was almost out that door. So tell me what I should have done, tell me what you would have done, Cas, because I—”

“I would have let him go, Dean!”

It’s the loudest Dean has ever heard Castiel speak. They are frozen, staring at each other, panting. Dean’s hands shake at his sides. His lips tremble as he says quietly, “Is that so?”

“Dean…”

“You’d let him die.”

“If that was his choice, Dean: yes.”

Dean frowns viciously, working his tongue in circles against the roof of his mouth. “Well,” he says carefully. “Well then, that’s good to know. Thank you.”

“Dean—”

“So if Sam, Kev, or I—if it was me hanging on a limb, you’d just walk by and say, oh well, see ya. Nice knowin’ ya! Have a—”

"Don’t you dare!" Castiel surges forward, stopping barely inches away from Dean. “Don’t you dare pretend that I don’t care about you, about all of you!”

Dean sneers at him. “Actions speak louder than words.”

“Says the man who threw me out.”

In an instant, Dean's temper withers, trapped under Castiel’s fierce gaze. “Cas—”

“Let me guess,” says Castiel coolly. “That was Ezekiel’s idea too? He thought I might get too close to the truth?”

Dean nods slowly, shaking. “Yes.”

“And you listened to him. I’m touched, Dean. Glad to know our friendship hangs on the balance of one angel’s word versus another.”

“Cas, come on, don’t think that. That’s not true.”

“Because, why? And don’t say you need me again, Dean. I can’t take it!”

Dean’s heart is bursting.  _I do_ , he thinks, he screams.  _I do need you_. And he wants to take his clenched fists and throw them into Castiel’s sides. He wants to grab him and shake him and make him understand. They should claw and rip at each other, both mortal, neither one of them at the advantage, each bloody and battered and bruised, their outsides finally mirroring their insides. Torn up and trying in vain to heal.

Dean doesn’t want to talk anymore or to think; he wants to launch himself forward and wrap his arms around the man. He wants to hold onto Castiel so tightly that neither one of them can breathe. Electricity kicks his stomach into his chest, and he focuses on the thought of holding Castiel so closely, with every part of them touching. “Cas,” he says softly.

“Dean…”

The anger fades from Castiel. He leans forward, and suddenly Dean drops against him; he throws his arms around Cas and pulls him in desperately. They tip over backwards onto the island counter, leaning lopsided into each other, shaking with their need. Dean buries his fingers into the strong flesh of Castiel’s shoulders, breathing in the heat of him at his neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispers fiercely.

“Don’t—you don’t need to apologize.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Dean, I wouldn’t have—” Castiel shakes his head and slowly pulls away; Dean begrudgingly lets him. They keep ahold of each other’s arms, hands clenched above their elbows. “I wouldn’t have let Sam go, I—I would have done anything to get him back; I know what he means to you. What he means to all of us.”

“Cas…” Dean shakes his head. “I fucked up. I fucked up big time.”

“You did what you had to do.”

“I am selfish. I’m selfish, and I’m a coward—”

“Dean—”

“I kicked you out, because I didn’t want you to find out. I didn’t want you to—to…”

Castiel leans his head to the side, supplying softly, “Hate you?”

Dean sighs, and he drops his head against Castiel’s shoulder. “I fucked up.”

Castiel brings a hand up to Dean’s hair, and he strokes it gently. Dean grunts, his body melting with the touch, trembling under Castiel’s warm fingers as they tuck themselves beneath Dean’s collar. Dean is suddenly exhausted. He is so exhausted, and he is so relieved. He’s not alone anymore, he thinks numbly. Cas is here, Cas is here.

“You’re not selfish, Dean. And you are not a coward. You did what you did to protect your family. It’s what you always do.”

“But  _you’re_  my family.” Dean lifts his head, blushing at suddenly finding Castiel’s face so close to his own. “I mean—you’re  _also_  my family. And I—”

“Dean, I’m here now. It’s forgiven. You’re forgiven.” Castiel laughs weakly. “If you can forgive me everything I’ve done, Dean, of course you are forgiven.”

Dean leans back, rubbing a hand self-consciously against the back of his neck. He remembers how Castiel’s fingers felt there. “What do we do?”

“Well…” Castiel shifts to stand side-by-side with Dean, also leaning back against the island. “I suppose, first, we must assess whether or not we trust Ezekiel. Do we?”

Dean shrugs weakly. “I don’t know anymore.”

“I could speak to him.”

“Don’t wanna spook him. If he leaves Sam…”

“Sam will die. I understand.” Castiel hesitates. “Do you want to wait it out?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to risk Sam, I don’t want to hurt Ezekiel—so what else is there to do but wait?”

They are quiet for a long time, until Castiel says softly. “He’s going to find out, Dean.”

Dean blinks heavily and nods, and wishes he were once again collapsed against Castiel’s strength. “I know.”

“He should find out from you.”

“I know that too.” Dean gives in to his desire; he tips sideways and drops his head onto Castiel’s shoulder, too tired to be self-conscious. He can’t tell for certain, but Castiel’s mouth sounds muffled, as if his lips were pressed softly against Dean’s hair.

“You carried that secret too long, Dean.”

“Mm.” Dean closes his eyes. He nods.

“Come on.” Castiel is tugging him upright. “You need to get some sleep. We can deal with this tomorrow.”

“Ezekiel said I did all this for love,” Dean lets Castiel lead him down and out of the kitchen. He feels drunk, happy to lend his control to someone else if just for this once. “But I’m not good with the love stuff.”

Castiel stops them, facing Dean carefully in the dim light. “Love is what you’re made of, Dean. I think you’re very good at it.”

Dean looks at Castiel, and he is suddenly and vibrantly aware of how very little distance there is between them. How easy it would be to tip forward and catch Castiel’s lips with his own. He has never wanted to kiss someone more in his life. It is confusing and terrifying, and Dean cannot process it. Instead, he licks his lips and says quietly. “You really would have done it? Saved Sam?”

“For you, Dean, I would have done anything.”

Dean doesn’t remember leaving the kitchen. Castiel walks at his side the whole way; their arms supporting each other without their realizing it. They go off to their separate bedrooms, and Dean sleeps the soundest he has in months, thinking of the warmth of Castiel and the safety he found in another man’s arms.


	3. Hold Fast

The tattoo gun buzzes loudly, a high-pitched resonance that quakes against every inch of skin its sound can reach. Dean watches its track; he remembers how it felt to have a needle bloom ink beneath his skin. His eyes trace the letters forming in dark, hypnotizing patterns, lacing protection over each rib beneath it in a language so old and forgotten only a few can read it. Castiel is one of them. He knows exactly what words are being inscribed onto his chest. It is the message he himself seared into Dean and Sam’s bones all those year ago. Now, Castiel’s skin is mirroring Dean’s insides, a perverse, inverted mirror.

It is high time Castiel is warded; Cas has been human and on the run from angels and demons alike for months, and he is about to go out on his own again. It is the least Dean can do, taking Cas to the tattoo parlor, scraping together the fragments of his and Sam’s accrued cash to buy this for Cas; Dean is already kicking himself that they haven’t done this sooner.

Castiel winces suddenly; he has been, for the whole of the event, very brave and quiet. He barely made a sound as he sat through the painting of his demonic warding sigal. He had chose its placement like that of Dean and Sam’s, on the left side of his chest, hovering somewhere over his heart. But by now the artist has moved her needle over ten of his ribs, each thunderous puncture sending spirals of pains straight through his skin to the bone beneath. Castiel reaches out a hand, and Dean clutches it instinctively. Castiel’s fingers dig into his flesh; he breathes deeply in an attempt to steady himself. “It still takes getting used to,” he says after a moment.

“What does?”

“Pain.”

Castiel says it very simply, and then he shuts his eyes. Dean licks his lips, and he concentrates on the heat between their fingers, on the sweat that is building between their palms. “Count to one-hundred. Slowly. Breathe in and out every ten.”

“Will that help?”

Dean shrugs. He reaches up to wipe his fingers across Castiel’s furrowed brow, soothing away his stress and brushing his hair back. “I don’t know,” he says softly. “Sometimes it does.”

Castiel sighs, a soft  _mmm_  accompanying his voice. “I’m glad you’re here with me, Dean.”

A shiver murmurs through Dean; he blinks, watching Castiel’s eyes dance beneath his shut lids, watching the fold of his mouth upturn more and more as Dean continues to run his fingers through the hair at his forehead. There is a shot of something, something rather like a cold fire, connecting the action of his fingers straight to his heart. Stunned, he tries to shake himself. He’s just touching Castiel’s hair; that’s all. It’s certainly nothing to get excited about. There’s no reason for his heart to pound like that, simply for the sake of touch.

But they have been doing this more and more—touching each other—ever since that day in the kitchen. Ever since that day, when Dean had let go of the support of his legs and had fallen into Castiel’s arms. Dean cannot forget that, in that moment, he had wildly thought about kissing the other man.

He tries not to think about doing that now, especially as it could be weeks before Dean sees Castiel again.

As soon as Castiel’s tattoos are complete, Dean will drive Castiel to the bus station to see him off, once again to be separated from his best friend, though this time would be on amicable and aligned terms. After weeks of pouring through texts in the library, weeks of observing Sam carefully, patiently testing and probing for signs of Ezekiel, they had been rewarded by the discovery of an old, dusty tome, its pages so aged they almost fell apart upon viewing. When Castiel had found it, he had gone to Dean and tugged urgently at his sleeve, fixing him with a look so intense that Dean did not hesitate to leave Sam and Kevin at the dinner table and follow Castiel down the hall. They nestled themselves into a dark corner, and Cas had held up the book with reverence. “Dean—I think I may have found something.”

“Yeah? What is it?”

Castiel had stared down at the book, an expression of awe on his face. “I don’t know how this book got here—the Men of Letters’ Library is so extensive—as it is, I found this tucked away behind a false wall, on the shelf that contained reading on giant lizards. Of all places to hide something like this—”

“Cas.”

“Yes, yes, I’m sorry—it’s just—Dean, this book was written by—I don’t see how it’s possible, but—it had to have been written by an angel.”

Dean stared at him, agape. “What?”

“It’s as if it were a reference guide on angels, almost everything about them is here, written in enochian.”

“So it can only be read by other angels?”

Castiel nods gravely. “This is a very dangerous book, Dean. And in it, I may have found an answer for us.” Castiel opened up the pages, and Dean looked down at words he couldn’t understand, so faded he could barely make them out.

“What does it say?”

“It’s a binding spell, Dean. Using this, we can bind Ezekiel to Sam; it can keep Ezekiel dormant until we choose to release him.” Castiel stared at him. “You and I both know, we can’t remove Ezekiel without risking Sam’s life. But if we can do this, we can give Sam control. We can give him a chance to heal. Dean: I think this is the best shot we have.”

Dean frowned deeply, staring at the words on the page as though they could lend him their meaning. “Ok,” he said after a long moment. “Ok. When can we do this?”

“I will need to acquire some supplies first, Dean. And possibly make a few inquiries from those I can trust…” he trailed off, and Dean understood his meaning. He straightened his back, nodding.

“I’ll come with you.”

“Dean, you know that won’t work; Ezekiel will get suspicious.”

“Well then, you should take Kevin.”

“Ah, yes. What a good idea. A wanted angel and a prophet of the Lord at large—seems like an inconspicuous combination to me.” He had paused, and then looked at Dean kindly, reaching out a hand and gripping Dean’s shoulder. “I will be safe, Dean. And I will return as soon as possible.”

When they had left that morning, Castiel said farewell to Sam and Kevin as though he had no immediate plans to come back, as though he had only returned to them for a visit. They had been crushed, and Sam had begun to protest; of course it was all a game, a ruse to pull the wool over Ezekiel’s eyes one last time, but Dean couldn’t help but feel every word that Sam said and agree with him. “But you just got here!” and “You can’t go, it’s not safe for you out there!”

Sam and Kevin had gone on and on, but Castiel skillfully put their fears aside. He hugged them, taking Sam quite by surprise; Castiel looked dwarfed against his tall frame. Castiel had packed his bag, swung it around his shoulders, and then he and Dean left for town, a gnawing anxiety continuously plaguing Dean’s stomach.

So, this had been and is their compromise. This, the two of them holding hands, as an artist paid in cash hunches her shoulders over Castiel’s chest. Dean is doing the only thing he can to protect him: the tattoos, a bus ticket, and an actual goodbye.

By the time the artist finishes her work, bandages Castiel’s skin, and they make it to the bus station, they only have a few moments before they must part. Dean puts the Impala in park, and he throws an arm across the seat as he turns to watch Castiel, who is tugging his bag into his shoulder and wincing.

“It’ll hurt for a few days at most, but then you’ll be fine. Just don’t pick at it, okay? It’s gonna itch.”

“I won’t, Dean.”

They look at each other; there is something heavy sitting on Dean’s chest. Once again, he feels the sudden urge to close the distance between them and kiss Castiel; the thought dances across his lips and turns his cheeks pink. He swallows, and manages to stutter, “Be better, if I could go with you.”

Castiel’s eyes soften. “You know that you can’t.” He reaches out a hand, and Dean accepts it. Castiel laces their fingers together, something newly intimate. And perhaps the motion is too much, but Dean doesn’t pay his caution any mind; he doesn’t want to let go. His voice is rough.

“Be safe, okay? Don’t hesitate to call me or text me—tell me when you get into the hotel, tell me when you leave—just call me, okay?”

“I will.”

The seat creaks as Castiel leans forward, and for a blinding second, Dean thinks Castiel really is going to kiss him, but instead Castiel releases their hands, opens the car door, and swings his legs out onto the pavement. With one last look, he leaves, and Dean is left to watch his parting form enter the greyhound station. Dean wraps his hands tightly around the steering wheel, feeling like his heart is ripping slowly from his chest, the strings attaching him to Castiel stretching to their breaking point, as he slowly disappears from view.

It is two weeks until he sees him again.

Castiel comes back on a rainy night. He had texted Dean earlier in the day, and he said that he was on his way, but then the wire had gone silent. Dean expected him at dinner. Then he had expected him at nine. Dean had sat and waited, bouncing his knees and sending out text after text, listening as the rain poured harder and harder against the roof. Kevin had gone to stay with Garth, and Dean had not told Sam that Castiel was returning. Unable to properly explain his nerves, he sat in a sullen silence as Sam continued updating his research from the library. At eleven o’clock, thirty minutes after Sam has gone to bed, there is a knock on the bunker door. It is faint, but it is definitely a knock, and Dean is running to answer it as quickly as he can.

He opens the door, and Castiel stands there, a sopping, soaking mess, shivering miserably and looking as though all the wind had been taken from his sails. “Dean…”

“Cas!” Dean grabs at his shoulders and hauls him in, tugging in his suitcase after, shutting the door behind them. Castiel leans against the wall. He drags his eyes to Dean, and a sudden smile crosses his features; he nods. And then Dean leaps at him, folding him into some kind of half-hug, half-carry, pulling him down the hall into the bathroom, stripping him down and rubbing a warm towel over his quivering shoulders. “We can do it, Dean—it’ll work,” Castiel says, barely audible around his chattering teeth. “I have everything we—”

“Shh,” Dean hushes him. “We can talk later; just warm up for now, ok?” Dean steps around him and turns the handle on the shower, testing the water with his hand until his skin tingles with the heat. He turns back to Castiel and braces his shoulders, watching the dream-like expression that suddenly crosses his face.

“I’ve missed this shower.”

Dean grins, his heart thundering in his chest. “Great water pressure.” Castiel smiles at him, and Dean swallows. He says, quietly, “I’m glad you’re home.”

Castiel nods. “Yes. Me as well.” He pauses. “I think I’ll stay this time, if that’s alright.”

Dean doesn’t even try to stop himself as he yanks Castiel in for another hug. “Yes. Yes, that’s alright, you idiot.”

“Oh, okay. Good,” Castiel says, muffled somewhere in Dean’s shoulder. He’s naked but for his boxers and the dirty towel, but Dean couldn’t care at all. He’d claw at Castiel’s skin if it meant he could be closer to him, and the feeling is so overwhelming he doesn’t know what to do except to shut his eyes and hug Castiel tighter.

“I think,” says Castiel after a moment. “I think I’ll take that shower now.”

“Yeah—yes—yeah.” And Dean pulls himself roughly away, tripping as he walks backward towards the bathroom door. “You do that.” His hand is closed around the door handle, when Castiel suddenly says, with great assurance:

“It’s going to work, Dean.”

Later on that night, Castiel is dressed in warm, comfortable flannel, and Dean sits on the edge of his bed. They look around at the room Dean has perfectly preserved for the day when Castiel came back. They speak in low whispers, their heads together, and by morning, they have formed a plan.

At seven o’clock, just before Sam rises to take his morning run, Castiel sneaks out, walking to a previously determined point on the map, some six miles away. Sam wakes up and eats his cereal in blissful ignorance; he has no idea Castiel has returned. Dean tries very hard not to watch his brother, not to linger too long over the peaceful silence that is settled between them now. He tries not to think about how he is going to betray Sam once again, about how, in just a few hours, so much could go wrong. In spite of Castiel’s repeated assurances last night, Dean cannot shake the feeling that, after today, nothing will be the same.

Outside the windows, the wind begins to pick up; the storm from last night has come back for more, and Dean stares at the clock, waiting. At ten, Dean’s phone buzzes: it’s the go-ahead from Castiel. So Dean lifts his phone to his ear, and he sets his final lie into motion.

“Hello?… Hey Kev, what’s…? … No, we—are you alright?”

As predicted, Sam lifts his gaze from the newspaper. Dean looks at him, and continues to speak with no one. “Ok, ok, Kev, calm down. We’re on our way.”

He pretends to hang up the phone; Sam is already standing. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Kev—he was on his way back from Garth’s and the car broke down. He’s a little jumpy, wants to know if we can go help him out.”

“Oh,” Sam relaxes. “Of course.”

“Told him he shouldn’t have taken that old Camry.” Dean fishes his car keys from his pocket. “You coming?”

Sam hesitates a moment. “Well, I was gonna transfer some more of the books onto the computer…”

“Come on, that can wait. Let’s go save our little Prophet.”

Sam smiles, as if “little Prophet” were a nickname they always used in reference to Kevin’s shenanigans, as if they were about to leave and go have some grand adventure, find Kevin and tease him mercilessly for being unable to fix his car. Sam laughs, and nods, and Dean is able to smoothly usher his brother, and the angel inside him, into the Impala. He texts Castiel as they pull out of the driveway: _Twenty minutes_.

When Dean and Sam arrive to find nothing on a bare corner of street, with only the forest surrounding them on one side, Sam raises an eyebrow. Concern laces his voice as he says, “Where’s his car?”

“I dunno.” Dean pulls out his phone. He dials Castiel’s number. “Kev?”

“ _Dean. I can see you. Ten steps in, thirty steps to the right._ ”

“Where are you, man? Where’s the car?” Dean turns to look at Sam quizzically, shrugging his shoulders and getting out of the car.

“ _You’ll see the green bandana. Make sure Sam crosses over it._ ”

Dean drops the phone from his mouth, pretending to cover it with a palm. He looks at Sam; he is pulling himself dubiously from the Impala, shutting the door behind him. “Car’s a few miles up the road,” Dean says. “He walked here.”

Sam pulls a face. “Was he that worried?”

“It’s Kevin. So: yeah, basically.” Dean pulls the receiver back up to his lips. “Ok, Kev, we’re on our way.”

“ _Good luck_ _,_ ” comes the reply, and then Castiel hangs up the phone.

Ten steps in, thirty steps to the right… Sam follows behind him, peering through the trees. He is not looking at the ground, not looking for the small clearing and the green marker that Castiel has knotted around a branch on the ground, not looking for the pair of blue eyes hiding behind a tree, that catch Dean’s, that nod. In two seconds, Dean whirls around, grabs the lapel of Sam’s jacket, and, having taken him completely by surprise, hurls him forward onto the cleared ground. Castiel steps into view, drops a match, and a bright circle of holy oil bursts into life; Ezekiel, and Sam, are trapped.

There is a split-second moment wherein Sam stares between Dean and Castiel in complete and utter confusion. His gaze pierces straight through Dean’s chest, and just as his lips are about to form a question, he disappears, and Ezekiel takes his place. He makes Sam stand erect, his shoulders pulled back and eyes blazing, an alien in the skin of his brother, a thing Dean never wants to see again.

“So, Castiel,” he says carefully. “You have come to eject me. As I knew you would.”

Castiel says nothing. He is braced at Dean’s side, the old book clutched in his hand, a finger marking the page to use. Ezekiel turns his gaze to Dean. “Dean, your brother will not survive without me. He will die. You want that, Dean?”

Dean swallows. “It’s time we finished up our business, Zeke.”

Ezekiel’s eyes narrow. He looks at Dean, and then Cas, and then he says quietly. “Perhaps you would like to explain this to your brother.”

Dean starts—Castiel rushes to speak—but it is too late; Ezekiel has disappeared from view, and Sam, a confused, broken, shattered Sam, stands shaking in the flames. Dean always tries to plan for the uncalculated error, the unplanned flaw in something that has to be seamless and quick; why hadn’t he planned for this?

“Dean?” Sam is staring at him like he’s never seen him before. As if he is trying to find clues within his brother’s eyes and shape that would reveal that perhaps this really isn’t him. That perhaps Sam has been tricked by shapeshifters or Leviathans. He looks to Castiel then back to Dean for explanation. “What’s going on?”

Dean stares at him, and his blood runs cold. He can feel Castiel shift at his side, and he knows what Cas is offering—that he could explain—but no. No one can explain this but Dean; it was foolish of him to hope for a few more hours of bliss, to hope perhaps for an untold amount of ignorance, that perhaps Sam might never have known. That Dean and Castiel could have eventually removed Ezekiel without a single worry, and that Sam would live forever, and would never come to hate his brother for what he had done.

“Sammy,” Dean says carefully, his voice tight. “Sammy, I need you to listen to me very carefully. There’s an angel inside of you.”

“What?” Sam straightens. He pulls at his chest, patting there as if he could feel it. “No—what—how, I—”

“Sammy, there’s no time to explain. I just need you to trust me.”

“Dean, what the hell is going on?” Sam shouts at him, his back taut with fear. “Cas?”

Cas has opened his mouth but Dean cuts him off. “Sam, you were dying. It was the only way I could save you. I’m sorry.”

Sam’s protest, his wonder, suddenly and slowly begins to dissipate. And everything that had ever happened since they tried to close the gates of hell, every lie, every misstep, every mysterious healing, every single moment that Sam had missed becomes clear. “You…” he says carefully. Then, “I was going to die.”

“Yes.” Dean swallows. “But we’re gonna get him outta you Sammy, just as soon as you’re all healed up.

“Dean!” Castiel shouts, and points up. The overwhelming clouds have closed in, dark and heavy, swirling faster and faster above them. The hint of thunder has grown, and Dean can feel the promise of rain, the smell of it thick in his nose. He looks back at Sam.

“Sam, there’s no time to explain any more—Cas and I have to deal with Ezekiel—just hang on, it’s gonna be okay—”

“Dean, what are you—”

“Now, Cas!”

Castiel opens the book, and off in the neighboring hills, Dean can hear the smattering of rain as it crawls nearer and nearer. Castiel’s voice, gruff, heavy, and beautiful in its native tongue, settles over each word, every letter pressing itself tight around Dean’s skin and making him feel like he’s going to burst. The power of the spell shifts the world around them, and as Dean bends to search inside the small backpack Castiel had brought with him, the rain begins to fall.

“Dean, what are you—” And then Sam gasps; he cries out in sudden and terrible pain. Dean darts up, the special rope Castiel had left weeks ago to find coiled tightly in his hands, its gold fibers starting to burn white hot; it sizzles in the rain. “Sammy!”

Ezekiel flashes through his brother, crying out, the shadows of his broken wings ripping through the dark sky, echoed in the flashes of lightning. The holy fire begins to flicker, and Dean shouts at Castiel, who has not missed a beat, who continues the spell, louder against each wail of thunder. Castiel catches Dean’s eyes, and Ezekiel’s cries turn into Sam’s, turn into Ezekiel’s, and back and back again and again.

“Now, Dean!”

Dean leaps the failing flames, the rope looped about his fingers, and Ezekiel glares at him, crouched on the ground. “He will remember, Dean.”

—Dean wraps the rope around his brother’s form—

“He will remember everything.”

—Dean tightens end on end, each knot knitting higher and higher; and Sam’s skin is burning red, and Dean’s fingers begin to blister—

“He will never forgive you.”

Ezekiel’s voice is louder than the storm; he cries out, the rope glows bright, and it is suddenly absorbed into Sam’s skin in a flash of light, and he collapses to the ground. The rain bounces off of each man’s shoulders, and it is done. The holy ring fades into nothing, and Dean falls to his knees at his brother’s side, shaking him. “Sam?” He says, his voice is breaking; Sam does not move. “Sammy?”

Sam remains still. Castiel appears over Dean’s shoulder; he crouches, placing a hand at Sam’s chest and fingers against his throat. “He’s alright, Dean,” he says roughly. “He’s unconscious, but he is alive.”

Dean gasps in relief, falling back from his heels onto the wet ground. “Zeke?”

“Dormant.” Castiel says. “As we had hoped.”

The rain falls heavier and heavier, a roar that surrounds them unheeded. Dean drops his face into his hands, and for a long time, neither he nor Castiel speak. Then, Castiel stands, his arms under Sam’s shoulders. “Dean,” he says, “We need to move.”

“Yeah,” Dean nods. “Yeah, ok.”

Together they lift, straining against Sam’s massive form. They carry him back to the Impala, Dean cradling his younger brother’s head, laying him down on the back seat. Collapsing into the front, they watch as the rain cascades down the windshield; they may as well have been drowning.


	4. Always Waiting

They arrive back at the bunker in shambles; together, Dean and Castiel heave Sam into his room and strip him of his wet clothes, panic stuck in their throats as they dress him clumsily in loose pants and tuck him into his bed. Leaning on each other without realizing they are doing so, they look down at Sam; he has not stirred since the spell. The only sign of his life is the slow but steady rise and fall of his chest; Dean cannot stop his hands from shaking.

Sam sleeps, and Dean cannot be moved from his side. By the second day of his vigil, Dean’s fear has settled into a solid knot in his stomach. He stares at his brother, busying himself with readjusting the bedding, attempting to rouse him with the smell of food or the taste of water. Castiel tries to get Dean to sleep in his own room, but to no avail. He brings Dean lunch and dinner, cups of coffee and tea. He wraps a spare blanket around Dean’s shoulders, as Dean curls up in the armchair pulled next to Sam’s bed. In the morning, when Dean opens his eyes, the blanket is still securely wrapped around him; Dean knows Castiel must have come in to readjust it.

Sleeping as he is, knotted into a distorted pretzel, Dean’s neck and back ache brutally. So Castiel takes it upon himself to smooth out the kinks, rubbing his cool fingers against Dean’s skin, pressing in deep until Dean shivers under his hands. Dean closes his eyes as Castiel does this; it’s the best chance Dean has to forget, even if just for one moment, the hell he has placed himself in.

“Kevin called,” Castiel says on the second day, his voice gentle as he kneads his knuckles into Dean’s shoulders. “He says he’s coming home in a few days.”

Dean nods, gritting his teeth as his muscles come undone. “Good.” He says, thinking that perhaps Sam might wake up for Kevin. Dean looks at his brother’s face carefully. Sam’s skin seems hollow and ghost-like; there are shadows under his eyes that Dean has not seen in months, not since Ezekiel took him over. Even in his sleep, Sam’s brow is furrowed, his eyes darting from side to side rapidly. Dean can only imagine what he must be seeing, what he must be fighting in the dark.

On the fourth day Dean wakes up early, well before Castiel has come in with the usual cup of coffee. He stands and stretches miserably, taking in the low gray light of morning as it slowly filters into the room. Dean looks down at Sam: no change. The thought crosses his mind, and has crossed it before, that perhaps Sam might never wake up, that perhaps he might never recover from this. But Dean cannot begin to process that, so he shrugs the thought away and steals himself to the bathroom, fully expecting another day at his brother’s side.

Except that is not what happens. Dean comes back to the room only to freeze in the doorway; Sam is awake. He is sitting up, back stock-straight, legs draped over the side of the bed. He stares at the wall, hardly flinching at Dean’s very sudden arrival. The sight runs chills up and down Dean’s spine; it does not look like his brother.

Dean licks his lips and swallows. “Sammy?” he asks quietly.

Sam takes a deep breath, gaze slowly falling on his brother. Sam takes him in for a long moment, chin jutting forward and lips frowning. And then, finally, he drops his gaze and says, “Hey, Dean.” And then, quietly, “You thought I was someone else.”

It isn't a question. A vat of cold water suddenly swallows Dean whole, dragging him down and down and filling his lungs. He opens his mouth, and for the first time in a long time, he doesn't lie to his brother. “Yeah,” he swallows. “I did.”

Sam exhales sharply in something like a laugh, a smile darting across his lips and dropping as quickly as it comes. Dean is still standing in the doorway, his hand still gripping the door handle, desperately wanting another task. His palms are sweating, and his breathing quickens. “Listen, Sam--”

“Don’t.” Sam turns to look at him, eyes staring flatly against the early morning light. “Just don’t.”

“Sam, I know you just woke up, but I need you to--”

“Dean.” Sam holds up his hand. “Stop. I can’t. Not now, ok?”

Dean swallows, his throat bobbing painfully. “Ok, sure, I--Ok.” He hesitates, and the aching silence presses on him and forces him to say, “You hungry or...? For something to eat, or drink, or?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Really? Cause, you know, if I were asleep for three days, I’d wake up starving.”

“Well,” Sam says quietly, looking at the brick wall across from him. “I’m not.”

Dean nods, not really sure why he does so; his palm has grown so slick against the door’s handle it almost slips off. Then, Sam begins to stand. “I think I’ll take a shower...”

“Yeah? Ok, sure! Sounds like a good idea.” Dean smiles, and it hurts. “Clean some of the sleep off ya! I’ll, uh, go ahead and start some dinner early, and maybe, if you want something later..?”

Sam nods slowly. “Sure, Dean.”

“No problem!” Heat begins to creep its way up the back of Dean’s neck. Sam says nothing; he stares at the ground, and Dean takes that as his cue to leave, backing out of the room and almost tripping over his own feet. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he fights to say something, anything, that might make Sam smile. That might make him laugh. Dean needs Sam’s face to change, to bear some other expression besides the one he wears now; Dean needs to make him something other than lifeless.

Stumbling and catching himself on the walls, Dean makes his way past doorways and the empty library, past his own room and the room where Castiel is sleeping; he somehow makes his way to the kitchen, smile still screwed to his face. He pulls out pots and pans, meats, vegetables, and pasta. His cheeks burn as he boils the water and takes out onions from the cabinet, chopping them methodically; when his eyes sting and begin to water, he does nothing to stop them.

Dean makes spaghetti. He makes curry chicken salad with grape-halves, the way his mother used to make it. He remembers that Sam likes salads, so he makes two different kinds, one with goat cheese and one with strawberries. He sets everything out onto the counter and stares at it. The sudden inactivity of his hands threatens to consume him, and his breath catches faster and faster in his throat. It’s done, he thinks. It’s done, and there’s no going back. There never was.

Dean rushes out into the morning. He runs to the safety of the Impala, turns the engine on and loses himself in the roads, in the radio playing loudly, in the cold wind that pours in from the window and burns his face, making tears course down his numb cheeks until he cannot feel anything at all.

\-------------------

Weeks pass, and something close to normalcy establishes itself in the bunker. Eventually, Sam comes out of his room; he reads in the library. He picks at the leftover spaghetti, and, when Kevin arrives, he slowly begins to smile. But a shadow still hovers around him; though he talks, he does not speak. Though he smiles, he does not laugh. And when it comes to communicating with his brother, Dean feels lucky if Sam even looks at him for longer than a few moments. Where had the warmth of the bunker gone? Just months ago everything had felt so cozy and so perfect. The chill Dean feels goes beyond that of the winter wind; the illusion is shattered, and every attempt he makes to pick up the pieces fails.

In lieu of an actual conversation with his brother, Dean instead sends out an emissary in Castiel, playing a covert go-between. He and Sam seem to be mending their bridges fine; Dean understands that it’s not Castiel that Sam has a problem with.

“Does he talk about it at all?” Dean asks one day.

“No,” Castiel shakes his head. “I have mentioned it, but…”

“He shuts you down?”

Castiel nods. He and Dean are silent for a long time before he says quietly. “I told him that he should talk to you.”

Cold shivers through Dean, creeping down his neck and ripping through his chest. “And what did he say?”

“He…” Castiel hesitated. “You need to give him more time, Dean.”

Dean nods, clenching his jaw. Castiel’s eyes are begging him for patience, but Dean wonders how much longer he will have any patience left to give. Wait, Castiel tells him. Give him time, Castiel says, gripping Dean’s arms gently. But how can Dean stand by and say nothing when the world is falling apart around him? Everything he and Sam built, the closeness they spent the last nine years reestablishing, is slowly but surely crumbling into nothingness.

Mid-way through December, a case comes through on the wire. Kevin finds it, and he is rather proud of himself for doing so. He presents it to Dean, Sam, and Castiel quite formally, handing them manila folders filled with packets of vital information. The case appears to be a Wendigo, possibly active in the area of Wharton, Texas  for a decade, living in a forest nearby. Dean grows more and more excited as he listens to Kevin explain each section of the case in detail; his heart pounds as he thinks about hitting the road again with his brother and with Castiel, as he thinks about spending their time healing through hunting.

But nothing is as he pictured it. Castiel is sitting next to him the front seat, because Sam had chosen to sit in the back. He sits quietly, staring out the window as the landscape passes, barely contributing a word to the lulled conversations Dean and Castiel have in front about the contents of the case. Dean’s eyes keep darting up into the rear-view mirror to watch his brother’s sullen face…

Dean forces himself to look back at the road. He forces himself to listen attentively to Castiel’s voice as Castiel rambles about wendigos. But when he begins to explain the root origin of the word ‘wendigo’, Dean finds himself unable to hold back any longer.

“You got anything to add to this, Sam?”

Sam blinks, surprised, looking around to catch his brother’s eyes. “What?”

“Come on: philosophical discussion on a wendigo? This is right up your alley. And you’re just sitting there with nothing?”

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, glancing over carefully. Dean can hear the warning in his voice, but Dean pays no heed. He stares at Sam for a dangerously long time, waiting for Sam to respond. Sam’s mouth is flubbing.

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Dean.”

“What do I want you to say? I dunno, how about  _something_? How about  _anything_ , Sam!” Dean glares at Sam, his mouth downturned viciously. “Do you even wanna be on this hunt? Cause Cas and I can do this on our own, you know.”

“--What are you--?”

“If you’d rather be somewhere else, all you have to do is fucking say something!”

For a long moment neither of them speaks, their shoulders heaving as they breathe. And then, Sam says fiercely, “I don’t want to be here.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I guess you’re stuck here, because I’m not turning around to take you back.”

“Yeah, I guess I am!”

There are no cars around them, they are in the middle of the highway, when Dean suddenly slams on his brakes, swerving them violently over onto the shoulder. He throws the gear into park and whirls around in his seat. “Get out.”

Sam stares at him. “What?”

“You don’t wanna be here, so get out! Walk home! I don’t give a shit.”

Sam’s mouth hangs open. He grabs the car door handle and starts to open it, but Dean cuts off his exit.

“You know what?” Dean says roughly. “I don’t fucking care that you’re pissed me anymore. I don’t. So, I’m sorry, Sam! I’m so sorry for saving your life--you’re welcome for that, by the way!”

Sam sews his mouth into a hard line, fury radiating from him; Dean feels sickly satisfied because of it. When Sam speaks, his voice is low. “You want me to leave? Fine. I will.”

And he does.

“Fine!” Dean shouts after him; the car door slams, and Dean immediately throws his fists into the steering wheel. “Goddamn it!” He turns to Cas, who is staring at him. “ _What?!_ ” he shouts, and then Castiel starts to open the passenger-side door. “Oh, so you’re gonna leave now, too? Well that’s just great, you two go on ahead--”

“Dean: stop!” Castiel leans in, speaking low. “Wait.” And then he closes the door before Dean can say another word.

Dean sits in his seat, hands shaking so violently he has to wrap them around the steering wheel to keep steady. He watches in the rear-view mirror as Castiel follows after Sam, jogging a bit to catch up to Sam’s longer stride. Castiel reaches out to take Sam’s shoulder several times; he is shrugged off repeatedly until Castiel finally stills him.

Dean cannot hear what they’re saying, but he can see the emphatic gestures of Sam’s hands, can see Castiel listening, nodding, speaking slowly and calmly. A sudden and intense desperation clutches at Dean’s heart as he watches them, as if the terror what he had said finally clicks under his skin. His shaking grows worse, and he looks away; he shivers under the sound of his own tremulous breathing.

Minutes pass--too many, Dean thinks--and he is suddenly convinced that Castiel and Sam are no longer there. That they have somehow successfully hitched a ride from some phantom vehicle, and that Dean is left here, alone. He shuts his eyes, clenching them tightly as he waits and waits and waits; he is always waiting.

Suddenly, the passenger-side door opens, and Dean gasps. Castiel slides in, and after a moment, the back door opens as well; Sam returns to his seat.

Dean does not look at them; without a word, he starts the car, and they finish the drive to Wharton in silence. Night has fallen by the time they arrive at their hotel, an old, shambling thing, marketed in incomplete neon lights, a chilling glow in the cold air. Dean starts to get a room, but Sam beats him to it, which leaves Dean alone in the Impala with Castiel, the rumbling engine echoing in the empty parking lot.

“Sam is going to get two rooms,” Castiel says finally. Dean turns to look at him, watching Castiel’s profile as he stares straight ahead. “I was able to convince him to stay for tonight. It’s up to you to convince him to stay longer.”

His eyes flick over as Dean says quietly, “Cas, I--I shouldn’t have… I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“You weren’t thinking.” He sighs. “Listen to him, Dean. Listen to how he feels. And if he wants to leave tomorrow to go home,” Castiel narrows his eyes at him. “ _You let him_ , Dean.”

Dean swallows and licks his lips. He barely gets out a nod, before Sam slides back into the car and points to two rooms in the corner. Dean obeys his direction, tucking the Impala into a snug spot to park. They each grab their duffle bags, and then Sam disappears wordlessly into the room on the right. Hesitating, Dean follows Castiel into the other, dropping his bag onto the bed closest and sitting there, ducking his face into his hands.

Castiel fumbles with the two room keys, shoving one carefully into his pocket as he investigates the drawers. “We probably should have gotten dinner on the way in, you know.”

Dean lifts his head to look at the door, not listening. “Should I…” He asks slowly. “Should I go talk to him now?”

“I think…” Castiel pauses. “I think I might walk to the Burger King next door. Get us some burgers. What do you think?”

He looks at Dean, as though waiting for him to agree, though walking to the door before Dean can react. As Castiel passes, he reaches out and hands Dean the extra room key. When Dean accepts it, Castiel grips his fingers tight and stares down at him. “Wait.”

Dean swallows, and nods, and Castiel walks out. Five minutes later, Dean hears the sound of a knock on the door; he answers it to find Sam standing there, hands shoved into his pockets. “Dean.”

“Hey...”

Sam hesitates, glancing into the room as Dean opens the door wider. Sam takes the cue and steps in. “Cas came over… Said he was gonna get us something to eat.”

“Yeah, uh…” Dean closes the door and gestures for Sam to sit. “At that Burger King we passed on the way in.”

“Yeah...”

Sam remains standing, staring at the floor, and Dean suddenly says very loudly, “Sam, I’m sorry.” They look at each other for a long moment, and then Sam nods. Dean smiles, relief washing over him. “I was just so--I mean, things have been so weird between us, and I...”

“I know.”

“Yeah! I just…”

“Dean, I’ve been avoiding talking about this because…” Sam sighs. He sits on the edge of the bed and Dean sits across from him. “I didn’t know what to say to you. I still don’t. What you did--I mean--I still can’t believe it.”

“I know. I know it’s never been anything you or I wanted, but it was all I could do to save you. You were dying; I had to.”

Sam sighs, suddenly standing again and pacing. “See, that’s…” He stops, templing his fingers under his chin. “While I was asleep… the days after you and Castiel…” He gestures, and Dean nods. “In those days, when I was sleeping, it was like doors were unlocking in my mind. And I was suddenly aware of everything. I knew every time Ezekiel had healed me, or you, or saved us. I knew when he realized that you no longer trusted him. I knew why you made Cas leave all those months ago, and why he came back.”

“Sammy, I wanted to tell you. I wanted to tell you everything.”

“But you didn’t.”

Dean drops his gaze to the ground, “Sam…”

“I’ve spent the last few weeks just… I can’t feel him. Not really. But I know he’s there now, it’s like there’s something heavy on my chest. I know that I could remove him. I know that I have the power now, that I could free myself and him. And I know that if I did that now, I would die. But…” He stops and laughs, no humor at all in his voice. “The only thing that’s really stopping me is knowing that, if I ejected him, I would hurt Ezekiel. And he deserves the chance to live.”

Dean’s eyes dart back up. He stares wildly at Sam. “What are you saying?”

“Dean, I have been feeling better in these past months than I had in years. I’ve been out running, I’ve been eating well, I--I have been happy--and now I know that none of that was real. It wasn’t real. It was just him inside me, running through my circuits.”

“No,” Dean shakes his head. “That’s not true. You’re still in there.”

“Dean,” Sam stares at him, desperate. “I am tired. I am so, so tired. Trying to close the gates of hell--that should have been the end of me. And you wouldn’t let me go.”

“Of course not!” Dean says gruffly. “How could I even--we didn’t even close the damn gates, Sam!”

Again, Sam laughs, and it sounds hollow. “I know.”

Dean stands slowly, trying to pull Sam’s gaze to him. “For you to die after that--it shouldn’t have even been you in the first place!"

Sam gives him a withering look. "Because it should have been you?"

"Yes!"

Sam lets out a huff, running his hands up and down his face. “And here we are, back to this. Dean, this has to stop.”

“What does?”

“This promise--this switch off--this scenario where it’s ok for you to die but not for me. I mean, don’t you realize how fucked up that is?”

“Sammy…” Dean plants his feet to the ground. He clenches his fists and stares hard at his brother. “Sammy, that is who I am. I’m your older brother, I protect you, I take care of you. It’s me and you, Sam, or there is no  _me_.”

Sam looks at his brother; he shakes his head slowly, as though he cannot believe his ears. “Dean,” he says finally. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Sam--”

“I am not your chain to the earth, Dean. I’m just  _here_.”

“Sammy, that is not true!” Dean’s chin betrays him, and his throat tightens. “Don’t you think that--don’t you ever think that you’re not important to me, that you--”

“That’s not what I mean! I mean…” Sam stops, out of breath and looking at a loss. “I mean that... Rock music. The Impala. Cooking, cleaning, stupid jokes, Star Trek--loyalty and heart--that’s who you are.  _I am not who you are_ , Dean. And you shouldn’t ever put that kind of importance on someone, on me.”

Dean stares at him, and finally, he says, his voice broken, “Sam. You were dying. You were dying. And I had a chance to save you. How was I supposed to go on, if I had the chance to save you and I didn’t take it?” Dean can barely finish the sentence. He shakes his head and bites the inside of his lip hard enough to draw blood. “Sammy, don’t ever make me do that.”

Suddenly, Sam walks forward and grips him tightly by the shoulders. He looks down into his brother’s eyes and says gently, “Dean. You’re my brother. I love you. But one day, Dean, I’m going to leave you. And that has to be ok.”

Dean stares at him like the world has just come to an end, and he is no longer a part of it. His knees feel weak, and the room is spinning. Sam opens his mouth to speak, and Dean can see the words in the air around him; he feels them in slow motion, thrown head-first into a brick wall, over and over and over again.

“Dean,” Sam says, “You need to promise me, and this time you need to mean it. I need you to promise me that if it’s my time to go--that if I am ready to go--you’ll let me, Dean. Once and for all.”

“Sam…”

“If I’m ready to go, you will let me go.” He shakes Dean’s shoulders. “Say it, Dean.”

“If you’re ready…” Dean blinks hard. “I promise.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Sam sighs and drops his hands, stepping back. A heavy weight visibly lifts from his shoulders and wraps itself instead around Dean, tugging him closer and closer towards the ground until he sinks to sit on the bed. He hears the sound of the door opening, and he looks up. Sam is halfway out and looking back in, haloed in the fluorescent glow of light from the parking lot. “Dean,” he says softly. “Thank you.”

And then Dean is alone.

\------------------

For thirty minutes, he hears nothing but the sound of his own breathing, the hum of the heater, and the ticking of the clock on the hotel wall. Dean lays on the bed, curled up, his back to the door. At minute thirty-one, a key turns in the lock; it’s Castiel returning with dinner. Dean can hear the crinkle of the fast food bag in Castiel’s hands, can smell the pungent odor of grease and cheese suddenly filling the room. It triggers his stomach to growl, though Dean does not move to acknowledge it.

“Dean?” Castiel asks softly, shutting the door. Dean hears him set the bag down on the table by the window. “Are you awake?”

Dean lays perfectly still, his eyes squeezed shut, hoping that the ruse will fool Castiel. But the bed indents behind him as Castiel sits, his hip pressing into Dean’s back. Castiel leans against him, stretching an arm over to peer at his face. Slowly, heart thumping, Dean opens his eyes and turns over onto his back; he blinks up at Castiel’s closeness, at the sudden and acute details privy to him. Castiel’s eyes dart back and forth between Dean’s. “Hello, Dean,” he says quietly.

Dean blinks. He swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. “Hi.”

“You’re awake.”

“Yeah.”

“I brought food. If you want any. Sam already has his.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He cannot stop looking at Castiel, cannot stop counting his eyelashes, painting the length of Castiel’s long nose with his gaze. Dean watches as Castiel slowly tilts his head to the side; shivering at the warm and heady thrill of his touch, Dean sighs as Castiel takes his hands and rubs them gently up and down Dean’s arms.

“How did it go with Sam?”

Dean stills; he wants nothing more than to be left alone in this dark hotel room. He wants to take Castiel’s beautiful fingers and rip them away from his clothed flesh, because Castiel shouldn’t be looking at Dean like that, making Dean feel like that, as though he were worth something immeasurable. Dean wants to be unreachable, but even as he moves away and rolls to his side, Castiel follows him, swinging his legs up onto the bed, tucking his knees behind Dean’s, and folding his arms around him. Dean is soundly held.

“Cas,” Dean says. He should say more--he wants to--he cannot. He cannot run, he cannot escape; but there is warmth suddenly all around him, like he is on fire. He says again, “Cas…”

Castiel holds him closer, knitting their bodies together so that nothing can separate them. Dean clutches at Castiel’s hands, at his fingers, with a growing desperation, a cry building in the back of his throat, landing somewhere in-between fighting Castiel away and pulling him nearer and nearer. Castiel mouths gently at the back of Dean’s neck, kissing him there over and over. “Dean. It’s going to be alright....”

“Cas--” Dean stops, and tries again. “Cas, I…”

“Shh,” Castiel presses his lips into the nape of Dean’s neck. “It’s alright.”

Dean shakes his head, and says, voice catching in his throat, “Cas, please…”

Castiel tries to pet him gently, tries to soothe him, but Dean suddenly whirls around in his arms, yanking Castiel in even closer, grabbing at him, burying his head in Castiel’s neck and throwing every inch of his body against him. Castiel knits their legs together; they struggle, intertwined, arms, legs, and hands grasping for purchase. Dean fumbles at Castiel’s collarbone, lipping it, his mouth traveling up and up, finding the hot flesh of Castiel’s neck, pressing against the stubble that grows on his jaw. Dean’s hand twists violently in Castiel’s shirt, stretching it away so that Dean can feel more of him, taste more of him. “Cas, please,” he says again, rolling himself over Castiel, their chests laying flat together. Dean opens his legs, grinding into the connection of their hips. “Cas…”

All Dean thinks is the feeling of Castiel. All Dean knows is the heat of him. He needs to feel this man, he needs to feel Castiel, moving so steadily beneath him; it’s too much. Dean has been ripped asunder, the darkness of his being pouring over its edges, and he cannot hold himself back any longer. “Cas, please,” he says once more, as he leans down to taste Castiel’s lips: “Touch me.”

Castiel’s hands catch at Dean’s face, cupping it, and Dean lets out a whimper at the touch, at the feel of Castiel’s flesh against his own. He claws for more, reaching down to pluck under the hem of Castiel’s shirt, folding into his mouth over and over again, opening, exploring, fingers rolling across the expanse of Castiel’s chest. The sound of Castiel’s panting is intoxicating; the spike of heat as their groins crash and slide together sends Dean reeling. Heart pounding, Dean opens his jaw to get closer and closer and closer, yawning to consume the man beneath him, because he  _needs_.

Castiel makes heady sounds beneath him, such soft moans and whines, and he kisses so well. His hands are tugging and trailing, pulling on Dean’s hair, buried in the broadness of Dean’s shoulders. He keeps pulling back to speak, but Dean stops him, because there is nothing to say--nothing they could either of them possibly say right now--and eventually Castiel stops trying.

Suddenly, Castiel finds Dean’s hands and holds them fast, lacing their fingers together as he presses up with his hips. Dean starts with the jolt, ripping his head back to gasp, allowing Castiel to press up and to roll them over. Shutting his eyes, Dean waits as Castiel raises above him, waits for the expected tug on his pants, waits for the lifting of his shirt, waits for Castiel’s beautiful tongue to find him everywhere and taste him...

But that is not what happens. Dean opens his eyes; Castiel is braced on his elbows above him, their stomachs barely touching, their hips definitely not touching. He is looking down at Dean with simultaneous affection, lust, and hurt in his eyes, and Dean stops cold. “Cas… What are you doing?”

“Dean…” Castiel blinks at him, then leans forward to kiss him, pulling away as Dean starts to eagerly respond. “Not like this.”

“Not like… what are you talking about?”

“Dean, please.” Castiel kisses him again, and there is no mistaking the cooling there, the lack of direction behind his lips. Dean grunts angrily and tries to tug Castiel back down to him.

“Cas--I need you,” he says gruffly.

Castiel leans down and presses gentle kisses over Dean’s eyes. “I’m here, Dean. But we’re not going to do this now. Not like this.”

But Dean is not placated. Anger surges through him, and his eyes narrow. “Fuck you.”

“Dean--”

“No, fuck you!” Dean sits up, pushing Castiel back, hard. “You’ll touch me, you’ll hold me, but you won’t fuck me?”

“Not when you’re screwed up about Sam, no, I won’t!”

Dean glares at him, his sudden fury making him irrational. “Yeah, well, you probably couldn’t fuck worth a damn, anyway!” He feels dizzy, and Cas is just sitting there, staring at him--with pity? Is that pity in his eyes? Every ounce of peace Dean has somehow found in the last few minutes tears away from him; his eyes are on fire, his voice gravel; he shoves at Castiel. “Get out!”

Castiel blinks at him and does not move. “No.”

Dean grabs at Castiel’s shoulders, fists his fingers into Castiel’s shirt and shakes him weakly. Dean’s vision is blurring; he does not realize it is because he is crying. “Leave!”

“No.”

“Why not?” Dean cries, his fingers hanging loosely in Castiel’s shirt. “Why?”

“Because I love you.”

Dean shakes his head. “Then show me, Cas--show me!”

Dean lifts a hand weakly but Castiel catches it with ease, and in two seconds Dean finds himself turned around, his back cradled against Castiel’s chest as he draws his knees up and disappears into the dark. Castiel gathers around him, and this time Dean does not fight him. Castiel rocks him, and Dean sobs. Dean claws himself open, and he is gone. And when he has nothing left of himself to give, his racking cries silenced into shivered breathing, Castiel lays them down gently, whispering into Dean’s ear as he wraps them up together. They hold each other the entire night, arms locked together as they finally fall asleep.


End file.
